


When I'm Gone

by waitwhatamidoinghere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitwhatamidoinghere/pseuds/waitwhatamidoinghere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock's lives over a period of two years. Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I'm Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Quick note: the plot takes a bit to get into. I don't love how the beginning turned out, and I promise you, it does get better.

Sherlock is lying on his back in the grass, a folded letter at his side, staring at the sky. It is a surprisingly sunny day; the sky is a brilliant blue and the clouds, pure white and puffy, are few and far between. How annoying. Sherlock raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. His left hand. Oops. Something on his fourth finger catches the light, distracting him. Sherlock gazes longingly at the ring that he can't bear to remove just yet and wonders how his life could have been different, if, just if... John... It was still hard for Sherlock to think about without breaking down entirely. He simply didn't think about it so he could keep up his reputation. But nobody's around now to see him cry.

________________________________________

Sherlock had never wanted a partner. The idea of spending one's life with a single person seemed daunting. One person who knows everything about you. At their mercy for the rest of your life - once a secret has been shared with your wife/husband/significant other, it can't be untold. Done. Permanent. Forever. Being at the mercy of anyone seemed like a bad idea to Sherlock, even if he loved them very much.

Sherlock had never wanted a partner. That is, until he met John. Suddenly, being able to trust a person, a man, with all of his secrets was something Sherlock wished he could do.

For Sherlock, it was love at first sight. He could tell something was different about John. But for once, Sherlock couldn't place why John was different.

________________________________________

Sherlock carefully pulled the silver band off his finger, spinning it, studying how it caught the abundant light. A series of Roman numerals were engraved around the inside of the band, invisible to the majority of people. They read:

XXI ~ IX ~ MMVIII

________________________________________

Technically, Sherlock fell love with John on second sight. But first sight sounds more romantic and has a better ring to it that second sight. And actually it wasn't exactly on second sight, either. Sherlock felt even more attracted to John at his flat than he was the day before at Bart's. But he realized he was a goner when John was sitting next to him in the cab. After attempting to destroy their relationship by deducing John so he wouldn't have to confront his feelings, John praised him. John genuinely felt that Sherlock's talent was extraordinary. Sherlock realized why John was special then - John respected him. Here was a man who could help him with cases from a medical standpoint and who appreciated Sherlock for who he was. And Sherlock Holmes, the man without emotions, had fallen in love with this particular individual.

________________________________________

XXI ~ IX ~ MMVIII

The twenty first of September 2008.

________________________________________

Sherlock didn't know when, at the exact point in time that John began to return his love. He'd simply never asked. Asking had seemed unimportant when Sherlock could be doing other things things with him. However, Sherlock always suspected John fell in love with him at Buckingham Palace. The idea of Sherlock knowing fine well where he was going and yet refusing to put his trousers on was just too lovable for John to resist.

But neither admitted their love for the other.

________________________________________

"Sherlock? Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock asked abruptly. He'd been busy visiting his mind palace for the past hour or so.

John rolled his eyes, knowing exactly where Sherlock's mind had been. He'd been digging through the back of his head to try and remember the translation of mendacem. A poor fellow had been found dead in a janitorial closet of the tube with mendacem branded across his lower abdomen. Lestrade went to Sherlock for help, and here he was, daydreaming about it and not paying any attention to John. They were walking to get lunch, or to get John lunch, more correctly.

"Did you just hear that man? He had the nerve to ask us if we were together. Right there - "

"Sitting on the bench, red hat."

"Yes, but he actually - "

"I know, John. His assumption was almost reasonable. Almost. If we were holding hands, everything would point to us being a couple. Our clothes are washed with the same detergent, implying we live together. We're walking next to each other, at a quick pace. Since some people still are not accepting of homosexuals, we could be walking quickly to avoid confrontations."

"But we're not together."

"Not in the way he means it. But we are walking in each other's company, making us 'together.'"

John sighed. His flat mate's logic had won out again. Sherlock smiled. Most of the joy in his life came from bothering John. And dead bodies. And from people who thought he and John were a couple.

________________________________________

 _How ironic_ , Sherlock thought. Things that brought him happiness were John and dead bodies. How unusual and sad it is that when those two objects are combined the result made him the most unhappy he'd ever been.

________________________________________

John and Sherlock climbed into a cab. It was late. They were heading home from a crime scene.

"221b Baker Street," said John, making eye contact with the cabbie in the rear view mirror. He immediately regretted it. The cabbie was obviously attracted to him. Years ago, he might have been interested in her. But now, John felt no attraction whatsoever. What had happened? How did he get himself out of this without offending the girl?

John tapped Sherlock's hand once, then took it in his. John could play gay for fifteen minutes to avoid having to flirt with the cabbie. Hell, he was pretty sure most of the world thought he was gay. Unfortunately, John wasn't sure if Sherlock could. When John picked up Sherlock's hand, he got startled looks from both parties he was in the cab with. The cabbie saw them holding hands and looked crestfallen. John made eye contact with Sherlock and imperceptibly jerked his head towards the front of the cab. Sherlock gave him a tiny nod in return, and went back to staring out his window with a small smile on his face. John made a mental note to inquire as to why he was smiling later.

When the cab came to a halt outside 221b, John was utterly disappointed that he had to let go of Sherlock's hand. His hand was cold, but it had a solid and comforting feel about it.

Sherlock suddenly dropped John's hand and paid the cabbie. John furrowed his brow. Something was up. Sherlock rarely paid for cabs, and he never left five pound tips. Together they clambered out of the cab. The front door was unlocked, and Sherlock and John entered their flat. An awkward silence fell.

"John, I - "

"Sherlock, I saw you smiling."

Sherlock, if possible, paled. "I - "

"I enjoyed it, too. I don't know what just happened in that cab. It was originally an excuse to save me from a conversation with that cabbie. But I felt something change. Between us.

So, I have a confession to make. I think I'm in love with you."

John took a deep breath and turned his back to Sherlock, closing his eyes. He expected Sherlock to evict him from 221b. Sherlock wouldn't want emotions weighing him down. The floor creaked. John waited for the door to open, then slam. He could cry after that door slammed. But it never did. John felt hot air on his neck, and Sherlock embraced him from behind.

"You only think you're in love with me?" Sherlock whispered teasingly into John's ear. "Well, I know you're in love with me. And I also know that I love you, too."

"I don't understand. You don't want me to move out? You're not afraid of being in love with me?"

"Of course I don't want you to move out. Who'd buy the milk? However, I am absolutely terrified that I'm feeling," he murmured. Sherlock's hands gripped John's shoulders, spinning him around. "You have no idea how long I've waited to do this," Sherlock said with a mischievous grin on his face. He leaned in and kissed John. John responded with much more enthusiasm than he had planned to. He stood on his tiptoes and pulled Sherlock closer with a hand on Sherlock's neck and his other in Sherlock's hair.

After they ran out of air, Sherlock stared at John with a school-boyish grin on his face, attempting to absorb what had just happened. John knew he had a similar expression on his face as well.

The door to the flat opened, and Mycroft stood in the doorway, looking surprised. John looked away from Sherlock in an attempt to prevent humiliation, but he couldn't untangle himself from Sherlock's long limbs fast enough. A smirk quickly clouded Mycroft's face, and he stepped over the threshold into their flat.

"Well, well. Perhaps that happy announcement shall finally be made?"

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock growled through his teeth. "Unless I'm not mistaken, this certain 'happy announcement' is none of your business."

"Touché. But as you know fine well, brother dear, if is my business to know other peoples' business."

"Even so, it is definitely not your business to go about disrupting other people's' love lives."

"Could we maybe not have, you know, a Holmes brother showdown? The last thing we need, Sherlock, is nasty rumors, in the government, no less."

"I see your flat-mate is wise, Sherlock. You've made a good choice. Oh, and by the way, what are you calling yourselves? Still flat-mates, for now?" Mycroft turned on his heel and walked briskly out the door, pulling it tightly shut behind him.

"What a nice way to begin our relationship," John sighed.

"Ignore him. He's secretly pleased I've finally settled down enough to have a relationship. He's been urging me to for years, much to my annoyance."

John wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, so he didn't. Instead, he reached up and kissed Sherlock again. When John finally let him go, Sherlock asked, “So, still flat-mates?"

"Hmm. I'm afraid I couldn't pass up on a chance to call you my boyfriend."

"I guess I'll acquiesce, then."

"So we're boyfriends?"

"That was the conclusion, yes."

"Officially boyfriends. Wow. Harry's going to be thrilled."

"You saw how my family reacted. How supportive."

"You just said Mycroft's secretly pleased. Isn't that as supportive as it gets?"

"Putting on a snide, I-told-you-so face to hide his true feelings isn't exactly supportive."

"It seems to me like you just described yourself."

"Oh shut up, boyfriend John."

"You're mine now. I'll do what I want to you."

"Really? How considerate. Now then, what sort of things are you planning to do to me?"

________________________________________

It all seemed too perfect. It was obvious something would go horribly wrong. _But love-struck fools are nothing if not utterly blind_ , Sherlock thought.

________________________________________

Jon woke up the next morning with Sherlock beside him, still asleep. Sherlock was breathing, slowly and deeply, with a peaceful look on his face. John was hit with the realization of how lucky he was this extraordinary man loves him. Remembering last night's activities, a broad grin spread across his face.

John slid out of bed, noting he was in Sherlock's bedroom. On his way to the kitchen, he picked up the clothes haphazardly strewn around the flat and placed them all in a neat pile. John had to search briefly for his trousers. They turned up on the mantle. He slid them on and proceeded to the kitchen. John made the coffee and then retrieved the paper from the front steps. As he bent down to grab the paper, a sharp pain burst through his left shoulder, directly where he'd been shot. John frowned. He stretched his shoulder, but it didn't hurt anymore. Bemused, John picked up the paper and read it on the couch until Sherlock rose.

At about 8:00 Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, tying his blue dressing gown around his waist. "Morning," he said.

John practically threw the paper onto the couch and sprang up to kiss Sherlock good morning. Thankfully Sherlock didn't appear to have any regrets. After John was satisfied with the kiss, he informed Sherlock the coffee was on the counter.

Sherlock chuckled. "You're already becoming quite domestic. It's not even been twelve hours." He bent to kiss John on his cheek, and then strolled into the kitchen to help himself to the coffee.

________________________________________

"Bored."

"Sorry?"

"I'm bored, John! Bored! Again! I haven't got any cases!" Sherlock pulled his gun out of his pocket and began to shoot the wall.

John sighed and covered his eyes with his hands. Sherlock hadn't had a case for weeks and it was driving both of them insane. "Come on, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson doesn't like it when you shoot holes in her walls."

"I. Don't. Care. What. Mrs. Hudson. Thinks!" Sherlock punctuated each word with another gunshot.

"Please. You know it's not safe."

"Not safe?" Sherlock scoffed, "everything we do on a regular basis isn't safe, John. We help reveal criminals. Anyway, those criminals could target us."

To emphasize his point, Sherlock pulled the trigger again. A resounding click signified that he was out of ammunition. Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw the gun down on the coffee table. He stalked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

John looked up to where Sherlock had been shooting - the area of the spray-painted yellow smiley face. The bullet holes had created a frown atop the vivid smile. Well, almost a frown. One more hole, in the middle, at the peak of the frown, was needed to complete it.

________________________________________

John and Sherlock were out to eat at a café. It was exactly six months from the day they'd designated themselves as boyfriends.

"Sherlock, are we going to be in each other's lives for the rest of our own?"

"Of course. Where else would I go if we separated? I couldn't afford London."

John took a deep breath. "So we're in this together?"

"Isn't that what I said?"

"Yes." John tightened his hands around his mug. "I was just thinking -"

Sherlock snorted. "Really? I thought you were incapable of coherent thought."

"- thinking we ought to formalize our relationship. Get married."

The idea had never crossed Sherlock's mind. His face went blank, then, slowly, grew into a cautious but elated expression. "You... you really want to marry me?"

"Well, I just proposed to you, didn't I?"

Sherlock's smile grew even bigger. "I love you, John Watson."

"I'll take that as a yes." Sherlock and John sat in silence for a while, both happy to the extreme, lost in thought.

John drank the dregs of his coffee and stood up. "Come on, then. Let's get back to our flat." Sherlock rose and smiled, knowing exactly what activity John had planned for their afternoon.

________________________________________

John and Sherlock were married three months later. September 21, 2008. The ceremony took place on Tower Bridge, up inside one of the two glass skyways stretching across the top of the bridge. It was a very small ceremony. There were 10 people total, including John, Sherlock, and the member of Parliament (having a brother who works in the government can be useful) who officiated the ceremony. The marriage was non-religious. Sherlock couldn't bear the idea of a god, much less have his marriage be bound by one. It was John's idea to have a Member of Parliament do it. Sherlock simply called Mycroft and requested he find someone suitable.

They'd decided to only invite people who mattered to be with them on their wedding day. Sherlock invited Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. John invited Harry, his mum, and his dad. During the ceremony, everyone stood. Sherlock wanted the wedding over with as quickly as possible and John felt that with the guests standing, looking over the Thames, was much more intimate than sitting.

John and Sherlock recited the vows they'd written and exchanged rings. Sherlock gave John a traditional gold band. John gave Sherlock a silver one. They were declared married, and kissed. It was over within ten minutes.

Afterwards, the wedding party went to 221b for dinner. No one lingered around for too long. They all ate and ran. Mycroft was the last to leave. He seemed to stay just to annoy Sherlock. He walked backwards out the door and said with a knowing smile, "I trust you have certain... activities you'll be wanting to get to," and closed the door. Sherlock looked at John and grinned. This was the part he'd been looking forward to.

________________________________________

 _I wish we'd had more time_ , Sherlock thought. _A lifetime goes by fast enough. Barely nine months certainly wasn't enough to meet and bid goodbye the love of one's life._

________________________________________

The pain John had felt in his wounded shoulder was back. Over the past few months, it had grown to a dull throb whenever he moved his arm. It spread slowly throughout John's torso, growing more and more painful as it gained space.

Sherlock didn't know. He couldn't know. John didn't want to worry Sherlock until he had a definite diagnosis, otherwise Sherlock would believe it was worse than it was. Anyway, John could stand it. It didn't hurt that badly...

Sherlock could tell John was in pain. He could also see John was trying to hide it. Stupid. Nobody can hide anything from the great Sherlock Holmes.

________________________________________

Three weeks into their marriage, John and Sherlock were having breakfast.

"Could you pass me the sugar?" John requested. He looked over to Sherlock. He had his thinking face on. John groaned, wincing as he stretched across the table to reach the sugar bowl. Sherlock's eyes snapped back into focus and onto John.

"Why have you been hiding that you're in pain?"

John was startled, unsure he'd heard Sherlock correctly. "Sorry?"

"You're in pain. You're hiding it. Why?"

"I… I didn't want to bother you."

"John, we're married. You're supposed to tell me everything."

There was a long pause.

"John, it's a good thing that I can see things you don't tell me. That is why I've made an appointment at Bart's for eleven o'clock. That's in two hours." Sherlock stood abruptly and kissed John. "I'm sorry for surprising you, but I don't want you giving me a nasty surprise one day." Sherlock looked into John's eyes. "It truly is for your own good."

John was deeply touched by Sherlock's actions for him. _Having another person love you and take care of you and know exactly what you need is a wonderful feeling_ , John thought. And no one can do it quite like Sherlock does.

________________________________________

"The pain originated in the vicinity of your bullet wound?"

John nodded impatiently. He and Sherlock were in the waiting room at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. The nurse had asked him that same three times, each worded differently. John willed Sherlock to be patient. John could see he was losing focus and was about to go off on the nurse. He turned his attention back to the nurse.

"... Doctor will probably what an MRI, just to make sure this isn't related to any pre-existing injury."

"Okay, great," John said with a nervous glance at Sherlock.

"It's obvious the bullet would and these pains are related," Sherlock interjected, "since they both are from one exact location. It's nearly impossible that it's a coincidence, it's too improbable."

The nurse looked questioning at Sherlock with an arrogant smile. She turned her back rudely and walked away.

John sighed, turning to Sherlock. "You couldn't have restrained yourself for once?"

"Of course not, not when your health is at risk."

"Arguing with the nurses isn't going to help me. In fact, it'll make them hate us and we won't be cared for properly."

Sherlock sniffed, turning away. "Oh look, there's the doctor. He'll want to take you away now."

The doctor approached them. "John Watson? We're getting you in for an MRI. Right this way, please." John leaned over and kissed Sherlock. Then he stood up and left.

________________________________________

After the MRI, John was asked if he would like to hear the results immediately.

"Yes, please, but could I have my husband in here? His name is Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor had a nurse bring Sherlock into the room. He produced a picture from the MRI of John's shoulder. He pointed to a dark area in John's shoulder.

"When you had surgery to remove the bullet and surrounding shrapnel from your shoulder, the surgeon missed a tiny bit of the shrapnel. The bit really is tiny, though. About half of a square centimeter."

"Lovely," Sherlock muttered.

The doctor looked at Sherlock uncomfortably and gave him a pained smile. "Now, I'm afraid I haven't got to the bad part yet. You see, that fragment of shrapnel embedded in your husband's shoulder had dirt on it." The doctor's eyes went to John's. And unluckily, that dirt managed to contain tetanus. Tetanus has been growing in your shoulder for the past year, John. It's spread all throughout your upper body, physically everywhere. Lungs, bones, muscles, kidneys, liver, etcetera. Tetanus generally doesn't act like this or take so long to reveal itself. The only explanation we have is the pathogen wasn't introduced into your blood, it was buried within muscle." The doctor paused, searching John and Sherlock's faces. He took a deep breath. "With the tetanus being so advanced and widespread, there is nothing we can do to stop it. You have about a month until it takes over your heart and enters your bloodstream. From your blood, it will enter your brain within days. Once the tetanus is in your brain, you'll have a week, max, until it kills you. I'm incredibly sorry."

________________________________________

John and Sherlock walked home in silence. There wasn't anything to say. Nothing could be done to save John.

For once, Sherlock didn't feel the need to flaunt that he was correct. He'd been right that something wasn't right with John.

Neither said a word until they sat down to dinner. Sherlock had cooked for once while John sat on the couch, staring out the window.

"How do you want to proceed with our lives for the next month, John?"

" I'd like to spend every possible moment of the remainder of my life with you."

Sherlock was surprised by John's response, but pleased. He wanted to make up for all the years together they'd just lost. For heaven's sakes, they'd never get to celebrate their first anniversary. "All right then. That's how it shall be." Sherlock looked at John. He was shocked to discover John's eyes were filling with tears. _Shit_ , Sherlock thought. _Emotions. I'm horrible with these_. "Are you okay?" Sherlock smiled inwardly. There. Generalized question, can be answered in a variety of ways.

John sniffed, wiping his eyes. "No Sherlock, I am bloody well not okay. I've just been informed I'm screwed and I'll be dead within six weeks."

Sherlock got up from his chair, knelt at John's side, and tentatively hugged him. John was motionless for a second, and then threw his arms around Sherlock's neck. They held each other for a long time.

________________________________________

The next morning while John was still asleep, the first thing Sherlock did was to phone Lestrade and let him know why he wouldn't be working for the upcoming month. Lestrade was horrified at John's plight and reluctantly let Sherlock take as long as necessary off work. Sherlock then called Mycroft.

"What a surprise. A call from Sherlock. How nice."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"For what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John's dying. He'll be gone within six weeks."

There was a seemingly endless silence. When Mycroft finally spoke, his voice was somber.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know - "

"Of course you didn't know. How could you? John and I just found out yesterday afternoon."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not really."

"This must be awful for the two of you. I'm very sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock had reached his Mycroft quota for the day. "Well, I'm sorry too. But being sorry can't change it." Sherlock hung up just as John sleepily stumbled from their bedroom.

"Mycroft," Sherlock told John, shifting his body to face him.

"Ah."

"And I've already told Lestrade I'll be taking a few months off."

"Great. Sherlock, I'm not sure how to deal with dying. I've got so much I want to do and so little time. I think I understand why you block out the majority of your emotions. They're so overwhelming."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "You're the first person who has ever told me that, John."

"I bet I'll be the last one, too." John's voice was barely a whisper. "I can't bear the thought of leaving you on your own, Sherlock. I feel guilty for enlisting, getting shot, not noticing this before."

"I won't lie to you. I'm going to be devastated when you leave me. When you die. But don't feel guilty that I'll be alone. That is the choice I made. I chose not to have friends. I never let anyone close to me. Except you."

"I still can't believe I'm dying. I still think we have forever to spend together. This is so unreal..."

"I'm sorry it has to be like this, John. But I can't change it. You have to pull yourself together so we can spend the time we have as functionally as possible."

"You're right. As usual," John chuckled, mopping his eyes.

"Tea?"

"Please."

Sherlock left John on the couch and went to set the kettle to boil. He returned in due course and sat down opposite to John in the armchair. "So, what would you like to do today?"

________________________________________

For the next two weeks, Sherlock and John visited famous sites around London. They went to the zoo, Westminster Abbey, the Natural History Museum, and on the London Eye. Their days were chock full of activities, trying to accomplish everything John wanted to.

When the third week came around, John's health began to fail. He developed a fever and frequently felt nauseous. Sherlock and John began to spend most of their time in their flat. Most of the time they just talked. John and Sherlock talked about everything. Things they didn't know about each other. This was their last chance to learn obscure information, generally revealed at family reunions where everybody is drunk. Or over years of a marriage, this one cut short by a tragedy.

John learned Sherlock almost became a journalist. Sherlock learned John enlisted in the army because of his grandma's death.

When John and Sherlock weren't talking, they played board games. John liked Monopoly. Sherlock's favorite was Trivial Pursuit. John didn't enjoy Trivial Pursuit, and as he was the one dying, they played more Monopoly than Trivial Pursuit. Sherlock didn't mind. Playing trivia games was his way of proving his intelligence; he didn't need to prove anything to John. Sherlock also knew that if he had been the one dying, John would have humored him and played Trivial Pursuit.

________________________________________

A small creature crawled up beside Sherlock, giving him a start. Sherlock grinned as he saw it was a hedgehog. He scooped it up and gave it a pat. Sherlock had always had a fondness for hedgehogs.

________________________________________

It had been four weeks. Only a week or two left. John still had his fever, but the nausea had been replaced with backaches. John spent most of his time sleeping on the couch, covered in a blanket. Sherlock consistently plied him with tea and biscuits at meal times.

John was very grateful for Sherlock's help. He felt loved and safe whenever Sherlock came around to check on him. John had given up on a life saving miracle by now. He only wished he could stay awake and converse with Sherlock. After all, this was their last chance.

________________________________________

Sherlock opened the refrigerator, looking for milk. He wanted to grow bacteria from Anderson's house keys with it. He glanced inside, then closed it. Sherlock groaned and banged his head against the handle. _Of course there wasn't any milk, you used it to grow that new strand of E. coli_ , he thought. _Great. I'll call Mycroft and get him to watch John for a bit while I go buy milk_.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Yes, well hello to you too."

"To what do I owe this fine pleasure, Sherlock?"

"I need to go shopping. It would be very helpful of you to come and watch John while I'm out."

"Not this time, I'm afraid. I'm having lunch with the Prime Minister in half an hour."

"Brilliant. Thanks for the help, Mycroft." Sherlock hung up. Did John really need babysitting? He'd just sleep the whole time, anyway...

Sherlock made his decision. He walked over to the couch where John lay sleeping. Sherlock gently prodded John awake.

"I have to go grocery shopping. You'll be alone for about an hour, okay?"

John nodded, already falling back to sleep. Sherlock bent over John and kissed him on his forehead. He retucked the blanket around him.

"Love you," Sherlock whispered.

"Love you too," a groggy John mumbled in return.

________________________________________

Sherlock was bewildered by all the different types of milk. There were half liters, full liters, and two liters. There were all sorts of organic kinds. There was skim milk, one percent, and two percent, whole milk, and then half and half. And the caps were all different colors! Pink, light blue, green, red, indigo, yellow, and more. Where was the one John usually bought? Calling him was out of the question. John was most certainly sleeping and waking him would be unacceptable. Calling would also be admitting his incompetence in shopping matters.

"May I help you find something, love?"

Sherlock started and turned to face the elderly sales lady. "Erm... yes, please. My husband usually does the shopping, but he's sick. I'm not sure what kind of milk to buy."

The old woman smiled sympathetically at Sherlock. "You've got nothing to go on?"

"Actually, yes. The cap is pink and it's a liter bottle."

"A pink cap means skim milk. It comes in organic and nonorganic in a liter jug." The lady lifted up two bottles. "Either look familiar, dear?"

"Yes, thank you very much." Sherlock took the organic milk from her and thanked her again.

Sherlock didn't want to only buy milk after going to the trouble of going out, so he grabbed some bread, tomato soup, biscuits, and the brand of tea John likes. Then he headed to the checkout area.

After all his items were rung up, Sherlock handed over his cheque card he and John shared. He almost never used it, as John did the majority of the shopping. Sherlock didn't like using cash for such insignificant things as groceries. Having cash for other things was important, like paying off his homeless network. You couldn't do that with a cheque card.

"Excuse me, sir, there seems to be a problem with your card?"

Sherlock looked at the employee. "What is the issue with it?"

"I'm afraid you can't charge anything to it."

"Why? How could this have happened?" Sherlock could hear the people in the queue behind him muttering in displeasure. He didn't care if he was making a scene.

"Er, you could have reached your monthly limit on the card?"

Thanks, John. "Great." Sherlock pulled out his wallet and paid the man in cash. He wondered what John had bought to max out their card. He picked up the bag filled with groceries I'm his left hand. As soon as Sherlock walked out the sliding glass doors, he began to dial John's number. To hell if he was sleeping. Sherlock wanted an explanation for why the card wouldn't work.

Just as Sherlock punched in the last digit, his phone began to ring. Fuck. Something else to - he stared at the screen in amazement and quickly hit the answer button.

Incoming call from John Watson.

Shit, what had happened?

"John, are you okay?" Sherlock asked frantically.

"That's a stupid question. I'm dying."

Sherlock almost smiled. "Good point. I was actually about to call you myself. I tried to pay for the groceries with our cheque card, but I was told I couldn't charge any more to it. Can you think of anything that could have maxed out our card?"

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I was glad when you left today. Glad to have some time to myself."

Something in John's voice was off. "Is something wrong?"

"Is something wrong? Everything is wrong! I can't live my life with you. I won't be around to see you grow old. I won't be able to take care of you when you're sick. I'll be gone soon. Sooner than you think. You'll be all alone. I needed you, Sherlock, but you needed me more than I ever needed you. Don't deny it. It's true. I helped you become more human. But you won't have me anymore.

I'm afraid. Not of death, but of what will become of you."

"John, you don't have to say this now, over the phone. You can talk to me in person later. "

"Sherlock, I can't. Haven't you deduced why I called yet?

This is my note.

I don't want your last memories of me to be my death, or how lethargic I was. I don't want you to remember me only how I was when I was dying. I want you to remember pre-tetanus John. How he made you laugh, not how his end made you cry.

In order to avoid those memories, you'd have to never see me in my last few weeks. I know you. You wouldn't stand that. To stop that from happening, this all has to end. Now."

Sherlock heard a cold click from the other end.

"I'm not doing this for you, Sherlock. This is my last wish - that you'll remember the happy, healthy John. I'm doing this for myself.

I love you, Sherlock. So much. I'll never be able to express to you how much. That's one huge flaw in love. You can't measure it. And of course, another is that someone is always left behind in love. Like when you die. "

John's voice had grown bitter. He paused for several seconds, and when he spoke, all the bitterness had left his voice.

"I'm sorry this happened. It ruined our life together. That is my only regret. I'll see you again someday, Sherlock Holmes."

A gunshot rang out. Sherlock began to run towards 221b, ignoring all traffic laws. His only thought was of John.

________________________________________

Sherlock was out of breath by the time he reached the flat. The groceries had mysteriously vanished - he must have dropped them while he was sprinting home.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time. He jammed the key into the lock impatiently, jiggling it until the door burst open. Sherlock ran towards his and John's bedroom. He shoved the door open and frantically scanned the floor for a body. John wasn't there. Oh. The living room, of course. John wouldn't have left Sherlock bad memories in their bedroom.

Sherlock spun on his heel, going back the way he came. As soon as he stepped around the corner, he saw John. Even though Sherlock knew John would die soon, it was still a shock. His lover, lying motionless on the ground. The man he was to spend the rest of his days with. Just gone. Dead.

In his last minutes, John had been thoughtful. He'd rearranged the furniture to avoid painting it with his blood. John had also put a sheet down on the floor as to not get blood all over the floor. Sherlock surveyed the area before he looked directly at John. Once the emotions came, he knew he wouldn't be able to function properly. The clean up required was minimal. No blood anywhere but the wall. The sheet could be wrapped up and tossed and the furniture could be moved back to its original place.

Now for John. Being a doctor, John had aimed the gun at his medulla oblongata, located just behind the ears. It controls breathing and heartbeats, making for an instantaneous death. The bullet went through his head. From where John had been standing, the bullet would have entered the wall.

Sherlock spotted the new bullet hole immediately. The bullet penetrated the wall within the yellow smiley face. The most recent hole completed the frown Sherlock had shot into the wall months before.

________________________________________

Sherlock called Lestrade to help him remove John from their - no, his - flat.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"I've got a body that needs removing."

"Address?"

"221b Baker Street."

"...Sherlock? In your flat?"

"Get here as quickly as possible." Sherlock hung up. Lestrade would be here in fifteen minutes with his clean up crew. They couldn't see him with red eyes, so crying would have to wait a bit more."

A knock came on the door.

"It's open," Sherlock yelled from the living room.

The door was pushed open and on the other side stood Lestrade and five other men.

"Excellent. Where's the body?" Lestrade entered 221b first, followed by the men. Sherlock pointed across the room in John's direction.

Lestrade craned his neck to see and his face paled. "Why the bloody hell didn't you tell me it is John?"

"Wasn't relevant. You never ask for the names of people you don't know."

Lestrade was shaken, but he saw Sherlock's point. "Yeah, you're right, as usual." Lestrade gestured to the crew, and they lifted John onto a stretcher. They carried him down the steps and to the morgue car. Sherlock watched through a window. The van swallowed John whole.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

Sherlock nodded vacantly, still staring out the window. Lestrade took it as his cue to leave, shutting the front door quietly as he left.

As soon as Sherlock heard the door click, he dropped all of his emotion shields. If he couldn't show emotion when he was alone, everything he had gained from John was for naught. John had taught him about emotions and how to deal with them. It was ironic that Sherlock's first major breakdown was over John. The cruel world made him deal with the tidal wave of emotions by himself.

Sherlock turned from the window and leant his back against it. He paid close attention to every one of his feelings, trying to identify them. Anger. Longing. Disappointment. Loneliness. Sherlock let them wash over him, savoring them. John could only die once. He thought, _I might as well enjoy these feelings while I can. They're all I have remaining of John._

________________________________________

John's funeral was held three days later. He was buried in a small cemetery on the outskirts of London. A good number of people showed up. John's family, acquaintances from medical school, even some friends from the army. People came from cases Sherlock and John had solved.

Sherlock hated sharing John with all these people. John was his. Sherlock was impatient to leave. He never wanted to see these people who thought they knew John again. Only he truly knew John.

After everyone left, Sherlock approached his husband's grave to say goodbye one last time. _A final goodbye - it couldn't be true. John had been healthy only a month ago. He couldn't be gone. John loved me more than anything. He wouldn't leave me_ , Sherlock thought.

Sherlock knelt by the grave, tears silently running down his cheeks. He chuckled at the display of feelings. He was feeling! Sherlock sobered as he remembered he was on top of his lover. Well, that wasn't the best way to phrase it. They were separated by a meter and a half of dirt. Sherlock reached out and straightened the flowers on John's grave. There was something odd - a tiny white piece of paper in the bouquet. He removed it carefully, trying not to disturb the flowers. Sherlock opened it. It said:

Sherlock,

I couldn't be more sorry. I've left you alone. My conscience can't bear to do this to you, so I've done something to ease it.

XXI ~ IX ~ MMVIII

 

It was a code! Sherlock knew what it meant right away.

Tower Bridge! Where they were married!

________________________________________

Sherlock arrived at Tower Bridge exactly twenty-six minutes later. He'd left the graveyard promptly after finding the note, pausing only to that John for this new distraction. Sherlock had hailed a cab, fidgeted anxiously as he watched the minutes tick past as the cab was bogged up in London traffic.

Sherlock bypassed the security with Lestrade's ID he'd pickpocketed. As he stood in the small elevator, he wondered what John had in store for him. The elevator rattled to a stop at last and the doors opened at a microscopic pace. The moment Sherlock could fit through the gap in the doors he squeezed through sideways and quietly walked over to the spot he and John were married.

Sherlock noticed the small slip of paper immediately. It was taped to a pillar, concealed almost perfectly. When John hid it, he knew only Sherlock would be able to see it.

Sherlock opened the note and read it. The only thing written inside was another code. This one led him to Buckingham Palace. Sherlock found the next paper scrap lying by a bin outside the palace. The palace note led Sherlock to St. Bart's, where Sherlock found yet another hidden note. In turn, that note led him to another place he and John had been together. They led him all over London - to Mycroft's power plant, to 221b, to restaurants they'd eaten at.

Sherlock traveled around London throughout the night and into the next day. A paper Sherlock found on the shore of the Thames led him back to John's grave. A note was dangling from a tree near the grave. It read:

This is the last one, Sherlock. The scavenger hunt is over. You've found me. I'm your prize. Sort of. I've always loved you. I won't be able to say it anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't. I'll always be here, with you. Always. I'll never leave. You said once you'd be lost without your blogger. Don't get lost. Please. Continue with your life. Solve cases. Drive Anderson bonkers. Annoy the hell out of Mycroft. And don't look back. They were good times, but your whole life is ahead of you, filled with even more good times. When you remember me, be happy. Don't remember how I died, remember the times we spent together. I'm a part of you now. I will always be here, for you.

Love you,

Your John

 

Sherlock notices he's lying on his back. On the ground. In a graveyard. Crying. He doesn't remember lying down, much less when he began to cry. It feels like Sherlock has been crying for days on end, since John's death.

Sherlock pushes himself up onto his elbows, observing his surroundings. John's grave. Flowers. Trees. A sleeping hedgehog. Nothing unusual. He is alone.

Sherlock sits up. He reaches out to touch John's gravestone with his left hand, tracing the gold letter. They read:

JOHN WATSON

CONSULTING BLOGGER

 

Sherlock smiles fondly at the reference to his chosen profession and his and John's relationship. It feels weirdly fitting, like the last piece has fallen into place.

A sudden, "Oh!" erupts from Sherlock. "That's it! The cheque card! You ordered a custom tombstone engraving and charged it to our card! That's why I couldn't buy anything more using it."

A wide grin spreads across Sherlock's face. John had known his engraved gravestone would please Sherlock more than any milk ever could. Satisfied with his deduction, Sherlock stands and turns to leave. He only gets a few paces before turning around.

"John, I want you to know I've forgiven you for departing a little early. I would have done the same in your position. I don't blame you for what has happened. The blame is to be spread across too many shoulders for me to pinpoint a single person who bears all fault.

I'll continue with my cases. They won't be the same as before, but I'll manage. One thing I won't do is get another assistant. That is your exclusive position, and no one could do it as well as you did.

More importantly, I want you to know that I, too, will always love you. Nothing can stop our love now. Not even death.

'Til death do us part?" Sherlock smiles sarcastically. "Definitely not. It is 'til death do us unite. We are together even death."

Sherlock turns and walks slowly from the grave. As he steps through the gate, Sherlock pauses and spins around once more. He gazes at John's grave, barely visible through the pine trees. After a few seconds, Sherlock turns around and strides away.

He'll be back.

________________________________________

 

_When I'm Gone_

Lyman Hancock

 

When I come to the end of my journey

And I travel my last weary mile

Just forget if you can, that I ever frowned

And remember only the smile

 

Forget unkind words I have spoken

Remember some good I have done

Forget that I ever had heartache

And remember I've had loads of fun

 

Forget that I've stumbled and blundered

And sometimes fell by the way

Remember I have fought some hard battles

And won, ere by the close of the day

 

Then forget to grieve for my going

I would not have you sad for a day

But in summer just gather some flowers

And remember the place where I lay

 

And come in the shade of evening

When the sun paints the sky in the west

Stand for a few moments beside me

And remember only my best


End file.
